


crush

by Fuckboy Phoebus (The_Resurrection_3D)



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Established Relationship, M/M, Metafiction, Mild Gore, NSFW Art, Vaginal Sex, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-04-07 16:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19088398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Resurrection_3D/pseuds/Fuckboy%20Phoebus
Summary: “I’m gonna get Matt to burn that,” Edd says, which causes Tord to only hug the existential Garfield painting closer, his cheek pressed flat against the silver frame.Tord runs his fingers gently over Garfield’s face, the white thought bubble asking, Why me?, before he simply says, “You wouldn’t. You think my pain is too funny.”Now with fan art!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is an explanation for this but it won't make anything better. Though I will say that by "crush" I mean [ the cover by the black dresses. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ayhNrGoVoWU)
> 
> You know, as much as you could criticize Filthy Frank, he did introduce two of the most useful phrases into the English language: "God left me unfinished," and "cringe so strong it's like a bump of coke."

In her 1979 controversial masterwork, _The Sadeian Woman,_ British authoress Angela Carter describes pornography as “graffiti,” says, “Pornography is the orphan little sister of the arts; its functionalism renders it suspect, more applied art than fine art, and so its very creators rarely take it seriously.

…Nevertheless, pornographic writing retains this in common with all literature - that it turns the flesh into word. This is the real transformation the text performs upon libidinous fantasy. The verbal structure is in itself reassuring. We know we are not dealing with real flesh or anything like it, but with a cunningly articulated verbal simulacrum which has the power to arouse, but not, in itself, to assuage desire.

At this point, the reader, the consumer, enters the picture.”

So let me tell you a story:

Edd wakes up almost mid-afternoon, just like any other. Tom and Matt are yelling indistinctly through the walls, as they always are, and Edd groans, rolling over in bed to check his phone.

Tord has sent him a picture: himself, a peace sign covering most of his face, and beside him the velvet painting of Garfield staring up at the sky, arms outstretched in silent plea.

The caption: “You already know what it is.”

Oh, does he.

* * *

“I’m gonna get Matt to burn that,” Edd says, which causes Tord to only hug the existential Garfield painting closer, his cheek pressed flat against the silver frame.

Tord runs his fingers gently over Garfield’s face, the white thought bubble asking, _Why me?,_ before he simply says, “You wouldn’t. You think my pain is too funny.”

Edd steps over mountains of tankobon volumes and graph paper and empty bottles to Tord’s –

Well, ‘nest’ was what he’d defended it as to Tom, who was probably still standing outside, still staring off with his blank, black eyes enough for Edd to go, “Tom, the war’s over, we won.”

“It’s a travesty in there,” Tom had muttered back.

A raspberry. “He’s just nesting, “ and a dismissive roll of his wrist. “What’s the big deal?”

Tom shook his head, eyes still wide, and took another sip from his bottle. “Also, why the hell were there empty Plan B boxes everywhere.”

Edd shrugged. “Tord gets it for himself every cycle or so. Sometimes I hit it raw an—”

“What if you _didn’t_ do that?” Tom asked.

To which Edd had smiled as though Tom were the biggest idiot in the world. “What are you talking about.”

Inside, he regrets it: mountains of trash, stacks of papers falling out between books, the whole room a sickly –

“And by the WAY,” Tom shouts somewhere deeper in the house, a door opening and slamming shut. “They're not _fucking_ yellow.” Matt's laugh, indistinct. 

Jesus Christ, those two. 

Edd shakes his head, the smell already overwhelming – vanilla and something sharp, something he can’t name. Tord is curled up in his bed, blanket burrito, hugging the Garfield painting Matt had found in a thrift shop as though it were a dakimakura.

Heats have always made Tord a little existential.

By the smell alone, this one is either just starting or lesser, Tord’s body still bouncing back and forth between suppressant brands and his own poor memory, but at least he isn’t crawling into Edd’s bed with a groan of agony, complaining of being body flossed by an orc with hot-sauce-drenched barbed wire for a cock.

Edd wants to both laugh and grimace at the memory, and when his weight dips the bed Tord peels away some of the covers and the smell hits Edd like a tidal wave.

And maybe he already has an erection.

But maybe he also feels a little bad about it, as he always does, as if his body weren’t too his eternal enemy, for Tord’s eyes almost took punched-out for how bruised they are and his face has all the warmth of a corpse.

Still, he pulls Edd atop him with only a hint of urgency, thrumming as Edd’s lips find his neck. Edd smells more than feels the scent gland swollen probably painfully under Tord’s skin, a small protrusion like a bug bite or a tumor, vanilla and, now that’s close enough, lingering cigars– and himself, running faintly underneath. Tord sighs heavily as Edd begins to kiss along his gland, his neck, up to his jawline, acquiescing to a soft peck on his lips.

“Doesn’t it hurt to lie on that thing?” Edd asks, slipping his arm underneath Tord’s shoulder blades and feeling himself mashed between body and frame.

“Not anymore than to have your fat ass on top of me.”

Edd matches his deadpan expression. “You can leave if you’re not having any fun.”

“This is my room.”

“Technically this is my house.”

“Technically this is my vagina but I still let you share it.”

Not without resistance, mind – the contours aren’t a perfect fit for him, requiring a level of relaxation that could only be coaxed out of Tord after dozens of minutes of affection, but that isn’t too much of a problem. He has to spend _more_ time with him – how tragic.

Edd smiles,  tries to pour the onrush of warmth in his chest up and out into his kiss, a spike of arousal through his heart as Tord’s tongue slides up to meet his, traveling down his arms to the tips of his fingers. Tord’s skin is ticklishly cold as he melts into Edd’s kiss, shoving his hands up Edd’s shirt.

“Now c’mon,” Tord says into the kiss. “Whip it out, I don’t have all day.”

“Is this how they talk in your hentais?”

“It’s just _hentai,_ first of all.” Tord grabs the hem of Edd’s pants and begins trying to push them down, to which Edd laughs and bats his hands anyway.

And things spiral from there.

In Brian Catling’s 2015 debut, _The Vorrh,_ a prominent cyclops character is described as having a penis with “a counterclockwise spiral” that turns with “a tickling sensation” as it retracts. Later on, said penis will somehow cure a woman’s lifelong blindness.

Ducks have corkscrew penises, too. Longer than the average human one, in fact.

As[ Megan Gannon of LiveScience writes,](https://www.livescience.com/45517-how-corkscrew-vaginas-evolved.html) “While most birds don't have any penis whatsoever, ducks do, and these prodigious members unfurl explosively when it's time to mate. Only recently did scientists discover that some female ducks have long, [corkscrew-shaped vaginas](https://www.livescience.com/5964-odd-duck-sex.html) that spiral in the opposite direction as the male's member. This allows the female to fight back against undesirable, notoriously aggressive males, since the duck's penis won't fit so easily. In this way, duck genitals look less like the byproducts of choosy females than the consequences of a sexual arms race, where male and female parts have evolved in response to each other's ever-advancing equipment.”

Guys.

Guys.

I have a proposition for you.

And you say, “What the hell.”

And you say, “Waitress, I did not order this.”

And you say, “Nobody fucking reads A/B/O for the art anyway. We get it, it’s bad. We get it, it’s bad.”

That’s true, I suppose.

They should still have duck dicks, though.

ii.

Tord shifts his hips up, allowing Edd to sink in a little deeper – Edd coos, rubbing circles on Tord’s hips as something deep inside him begins to pulse, pulling Edd in further. Tord bites his lip as Edd pushes forward, both of them shuddering as Edd finally bottoms out, his cock almost lengthened out completely, Tord’s body still pulsing around him like a second, war drum heartbeat.

Tord’s legs tighten around Edd’s waist, hands scratching red battle lines down his back as Edd starts to thrust into him, a medium staccato rhythm.

That’s the part about this that’s hard to translate: the way the rings of Edd’s cock must compress as he slides in, elongate as he drags back out, slowing down so Tord can feel every twist as it moves in and out of him. How Edd groans at the feeling of Tord pulsing around him like a living cock ring, if you’ll pardon the absolutely horrendous –

Well, I'm not really in any place to complain. After all, one of the ways Carter describes the vagina is as a “dumb mouth waiting to be filled." Gay male porn isn't much better, so Carter claims, briefly anticipating by almost a decade Leo Bersani's famous essay "Is the Rectum a Grave?", wherein he outlines the philosophical similarities between misogyny and homophobia. Even as accepting as the ancient Greeks supposedly were, after all, any man caught bottoming was still barred from civil service. And I don't know enough about 70s gay porn to refute her, so we'll roll with it.

Reduced then to a funhouse mirror of a funhouse mirror of a bathroom stall scrawl of a Woman (TM), the omega too is a “dumb mouth from which the teeth have been pulled.”

Wouldn’t that be great, though? To feel his teeth dig through the burning flesh, feel the blood run out of you in spurts and in rivers, feel your body _resist_ and him push harder, until you see that long chunk of you come away and watch, breathless, as he tips his head back, his mouth a wound, you sliding down his throat in masticated chunks, settling inside him farther than anyone else could ever go?

“But, if flesh plus skin equals sensuality,” writes Carter, “then flesh minus skin equals meat. The skin has turned into rind, or crackling; the garden of fleshly delights becomes a butcher’s shop, or Sweeney Todd’s kitchen. My flesh encounters your taste for meat. So much the worse for me.”

But oh, wouldn’t it be great to be free?

* * *

Edd wakes up almost mid-afternoon, just like any other. His heart is racing and his sweat is already cool on his body, even before he pulls back the covers and feels the air rush over him. Tom and Matt are yelling indistinctly through the walls, as they always are, and Edd groans, rolling over in bed to check his phone.

Tord has sent him a picture: himself, a peace sign covering most of his face, and beside him the cheap print of Garfield staring up at the sky, arms outstretched in silent plea.

The caption: “You already know what it is.”

Oh, does he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [“Simulating the entire universe down to the quantum level is obviously infeasible, unless radically new physics is discovered. But in order to get a realistic simulation of human experience, much less is needed – only whatever is required to ensure that the simulated humans, interacting in normal human ways in their simulated environment, don’t notice any irregularities.”](https://www.simulation-argument.com/simulation.html)


	2. now with fan art!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some guest art by a very special friend of mine! But you'll have to guess who it is :P
> 
> edit (11/16/19): fixed!


End file.
